


fill the gaps with your name

by qthulhu



Series: immeasurable fingerprints [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, the snap lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:02:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthulhu/pseuds/qthulhu
Summary: And all that Foggy amounts to in that moment is a cluster of welts and an unending gasp of desperation.





	fill the gaps with your name

A moment is all it takes. In one breath, the world turns and babies wail and couples dance, and in the next horrifying blink, there's an empty crib and dirty little booties and a hall filled only with piano tracks blaring from a little silver boombox. A promising future can await just outside the blurred edges of the dawn, blown away in an instant. No matter how badly you want it, no matter how powered or otherwise your grip is, no matter how quickly you run for that glimmering hope, you can't catch it.

Foggy runs far that never turns. He runs through the dunes of time and circumstance, and drowns under the rippling sands. Grain dribbles from the top of the hourglass and spills from his lips. Foggy runs through scalding puddles of java despite soaking his socks, shoes squeaking as he slips over the mess and crashes to his knees. He looks like he's praying or pleading with the impressions of ghosts, flimsy yet still there as he runs. The crumbled remains of muffin - birdfood, is all it is now. The chocolate chips melt in the heat. And that stupid fucking bagel, it's sponging up as much caffeinated bullshit as it can until it squelches under Foggy's foot. He's dripping with it now, the pain all but forgotten in his haste to reach two of the most important ghosts in his life before they flee to the heavens. Karen's ashes paint the ceiling before Foggy even passes the threshold. He'll cry for her, mourn for her as a brother in metaphorical arms and a brother in crime (and the busting of it), when the moment has passed and he's tucked under his sheets with Matt's (fucking) blanket draped over his head in an attempt to will away the image before him now.  

Matt's particles, on the otherhand, aren't quite out of their human shape. It's like they  _choose_ to stick around and bid Foggy a horribly dramatic adieu before they ascend to fuck knows where. Foggy hopes it's Heaven. Matt wouldn't fair in Hell, even with the persona of the Devil shielding his heart. Matt still has a face, and a broken mouth when Foggy catches up with him. It's almost worse, in a way, to be that close, yet too late, and much too powerless to stop the tragedy as it unfolds. Matt almost wakes up, if you'd believe it, once Foggy's wet little fingers waddle their way into the space he once occupied. It's beyond chilling to see the shell of a human being  _flinch_ as it dies. His damned cracked lips disappear in a frown, the last expression Matt Murdock will ever make in his life. Foggy cups where Matt's cheeks would be, runs a finger over the memory of his crooked little nose and over those eyelids, crushed petals the color of plums and peaches from exhaustion and healing bruises. 

When some of Matt sticks to his cheeks, Foggy can't remember if it's splatters of their decimated future or the coffee or buckets of tears that catch them. Foggy grapples with the blankets. The damned things deflate, expelling more of Matt into the open air. The taste of his best friend on his fucking mouth, all over his lips and expanding in his lungs, it's going to make him hurl. He never thought Matt would taste like the inside of an ashtray. He thought, in those rare moments of weakness under the stars, that Matt might taste a little bit like strawberries, the firm, unripe kind that have a little bite to them. Hell, as of late, he imagined a green, damaged tinge to Matt's lips, split down the center with a little bit of blood and a flashy white grin just under the surface. The Devil crept into his mind in more ways than one. Now, he'll never know.

 _Please_ , escapes Foggy a couple a times. There might be a  _God_ and a  _fuck_ peppered in for flavor. Foggy's on his blistering, weeping knees, for days or minutes, just holding that blanket that's still a little warm from the heat of Matt's sleepy body. The thing is soiled, now. If not for the dusting of, well, dust, but for the streaks of black fingerprints that Foggy covered them in. When he swallowed Matt, he swallowed all the good, all the burning, terrible, guilt, all the trauma and all the compassion. His windpipes wheeze like a broken bagpipe. The neighbor gathers him by the elbows (like Matt), rubs his shoulders (like Karen), and guides him into the hall where he collapses. She doesn't take the blanket out of his hands. She doesn't ask any questions, a fresh pattern of streaks down her own grey face. The woman drops on her ass, little feet tugged under her, and they cry together. The only thing better than being alone is being alone with others.

Agents arrive and ask him questions. What's your relation to Mister Murdock? (he doesn't know) Why were you and Miss Page at Mister Murdock's apartment? (none of your business) Did you see it? (fuck you) How long did it last? (fuck if Foggy knows) Do you know why it happened to them? (no. no, they didn't deserve this) The neighbor gets her own specialized set of invasive questions. 

"I couldn't handle the screaming anymore," she says when the time comes for her to explain their change of location. That's news to Foggy. It explains the cotton in his throat, though. The agents assault her with more, and more questions, because Foggy's combative and spits acid and black goo in their faces if they so much as breathe in his direction. Matt was not supposed to die again. Not this soon. Not like this. Foggy prepared himself for a dozen of scenarios, ranging from bullet holes to human-pin-cushion-but-for-swords. Not nothing, not this empty, fleeting and frustratingly inexplicable cloud. He at least imagined having a body to mourn when Matt died the second time around. And Karen was  _never_ supposed to die. 

"How many?" the neighbor asks.  _How many died?_ There's no answer. Foggy didn't expect one anyway. 

Because this is not a regular situation, the police do not ask either of them to come to the station to make a statement. Later, Foggy will realize that's simply because there is no force with the sheer manpower to process all the missing persons reports and death reports that will trickle in in the coming days. In the moment, he's grateful. He's grateful he gets to cling to the last piece of Matt, the last thing he ever touched, and he gets to whisper his goodbyes to two of the strongest, most stubborn souls Foggy has ever had the misfortune of acquainting. 


End file.
